by Helen Lowe
“It sounds like fun, though,” Carick said.
“It is,” Malisande agreed. “And this year most of us will be keeping our vigil. Dame Nelys says that if the weather is fine we can ride up to the old Temple in the Rock, which lies an easy day’s ride into the hills. The weather should be fine, don’t you think, Manan?” she asked.
Manan smiled. “I am no weather prophet. And a temple is a temple. I don’t see why you’re all so mad for the Temple in the Rock.”
Malisande threw out her hands. “It would be an adventure! And the Temple in the Rock is one of the oldest Imulni precincts in Emer. A vigil there would mean something.”
Carick had already gathered from the squires’ conversation that keeping a good vigil, which was the final step in becoming a knight of Emer, was tremendously important. Apparently it was the same for the damosels as well, so he hoped they would get their fair weather and the prestige they wanted, since it was almost as important as family standing in Emerian society. He had quickly worked out that Raher and Girvase, as well as Audin, had been born into the greatest houses of Emer, but whereas both Audin and Raher bore the prefix Sond before their surnames, Girvase was known as Ar-Allerion. The Sond or Ar denoted legitimate or illegitimate birth, and Manan had explained the distinction further when he asked, her arms in flour up to the elbows as she kneaded bread.
“Children born to the Ar, as we say it, can never inherit land or titles, not while any Sond of their blood remains alive. Although they frequently marry both, especially if they have distinguished themselves in war or the service of Duke or Duchess.” She had sighed, knocking the dough back. “Where would the armies of Emer—or the priesthood either, for that matter—be without the Ar’s and the younger sons?”
Both Hamar and Jarna, like Malisande, were of less elevated lineage, so prestige would be doubly important to them. Impoverishment, Carick gathered, was an old story for many knightly families who had poured out both resources and blood supporting the great lords through centuries of war. “I am sure,” he said now, “that the weather will be settled by the first of summer. It usually is on the River.”
The only cloud on the surface of his Normarch life was Maister Gervon, whose initial distance had quickly become outright hostility. Carick tried to stay out of the man’s way, but their paths kept crossing. He would turn a corner and find Gervon there, the man’s pale blue stare turning to ice when he recognized him—although the maister only spoke if there was no one else present to hear his sneers or acid-etched derision.
Carick ventured a casual comment about this one rainy afternoon when Ghiselaine, Alianor, and Malisande had come to kick their heels in the map room. The countess pulled a face. “Priests of Serrut can be like that, unfortunately.”
“I think the real problem,” Alianor said slowly, “is that so many are bound to the life against their will, because they’re Ar-born or younger sons.” Her opinions, Carick was coming to realize, reflected a thoughtful nature. “The isolation,” she added, “only compounds the bitterness for those whose temperaments are not suited to it. And there is a great deal of bitterness in Maister Gervon.”
“He must have thought it a great thing, becoming Maister to the Castellan of Normarch,” Malisande added, “only to find you here. Not only another maister, but one from the famous university in Ar—and appointed to the service of the Duke. You have cast him into the shade, Maister Carick.”
Ghiselaine nodded. “He will not forgive you for it. But he will stay and you will go soon, so you mustn’t let one warped priest spoil your time with us.”
Sound advice, thought Carick—but he found it hard to put into practice when he met Gervon later that evening. It was still raining and the dusk was thick as he returned to the inn, which was not a place he expected to meet the Serrut maister. So he was taken by surprise when he ducked through the gate, head down against the weather, and bumped straight into the man. They both drew back, Carick apologizing and the maister hissing like an angry cat. Then Gervon drew himself up, his glance flicking right and left across the empty yard. When he looked back, his pupils had narrowed almost to pinpricks and there was so much malice in the man’s face and manner that Carick automatically took a step back. The priest’s lips twitched and Carick saw foam appear at the corners of his mouth.
“Are you well, Maister Gervon?” he asked, striving for a normal tone. The corner of the man’s right eye twitched and Carick tried not to stare at the jerking flutter.
“I?” Gervon wiped at the foam with a hand that shook. “Look to your own health, interloper!” His voice hissed again as he stepped forward. “You think yourself so fine, with your learning and your River ways, but you know nothing—nothing of what really matters in this world.” Gervon drew closer still, so that Carick caught the stink of his breath and could count the red veins across the priest’s narrowed eyes. The man was whispering now, but this only increased the venom in his tone. “You will scream and I shall laugh to hear you. Soon, oh soon, my fine River maister.”
“Maister Gervon.” Hamar had appeared in the stable doorway, a needle stuck into the torn saddlebag in his hand. His voice was friendly as always, but he was frowning as he surveyed the priest. “And Maister Carick. I thought I heard voices.”
Maister Gervon’s head swiveled. Carick half expected him to hiss again, but when he spoke it was in his normal, chilly tone. “Ah, Hamar. I was just leaving when Maister Carick and I, hmmm, bumped into each other—a consequence of the ill weather!” He did not wait for a reply, but pulled his hood well forward and strode toward the castle, while Carick stared after him, heedless of the rain.
“Are you all right, Maister Carro? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Hamar propelled Carick into the shelter of the stable. “Manan would say you might end up one, standing outside in this weather.”
Carick inhaled the mingled smell of horses, leather, and fresh straw, and tried to avoid the memory of Gervon’s venom—as well as the question in Hamar’s eyes. Shaken, he brushed at his damp cloak.
“That must have been quite a collision,” the squire said, “and I suppose old Gervon said it was your fault, even though he had his head down, too. I saw him go past and then I heard that hiss, the way he does when he’s having a go at someone.”
“He certainly seems to dislike me.” Carick drew another deep breath, remembering the man’s eyes glittering at him and the spittle at the corner of his mouth.
“He gives me the creeps,” said Hamar. “None of us like him. But Lord Falk thinks we need a maister, and men of learning are few and far between on the Northern March.”
Carick nodded. “Unfortunately, when someone behaves like Maister Gervon it makes one doubt his scholarship as well.”
Hamar grinned. “That’s what Ghiselaine says, too. I think she prefers what we have seen of the scholarship of Ar. But it’s those gray, pebble-like eyes of his that I don’t like—and the glazed stare! Jarna says it makes her skin crawl.”
“I thought his eyes were blue.” Carick shook himself like a dog, trying to get rid of the damp, then grinned. “But I’m not sure I want to look more closely. Or discuss matters of scholarship either, given the man’s attitude.” He peered out into the dusk. “I’ll be sorry if I miss Manan’s dinner, though. I can smell it from here.” He looked at Hamar. “Are you eating with us?”
“No, I’m wanted back on the hill as soon as I’ve finished this.” The squire cast a quick, doubtful look at Carick. “Do you think I should have a word with Lord Falk? I don’t think he’d be impressed by Maister Gervon’s notions of courtesy.”
Carick shook his head, knowing that everyone would think less of him if he did not fight his own battles. Gervon was bitter, as Alianor had said, perhaps even to the extent of being unhinged, but there was not much the man could do to harm him.
Yet Carick’s dreams that night were uneasy, coalescing into a vision of Maister Gervon coming toward him through a wall of white mist. A sickly green light hung about the man
, and in the dream his eyes were indeed gray as pebbles and burned with pale fire. Flame wreathed his hands as well, shifting from leprous white to the sickly green, then back again. “Soon,” the apparition whispered. “Oh, soon!”
Carick jerked awake, his heart thundering. A nightmare, he told himself—and not surprising given his latest encounter with Maister Gervon. Just a bad dream, that was all. But he knew he would not sleep again, and lit a candle instead, watching its comforting flicker until dawn crept through the shutters.
He found it hard to work at all that morning and sat motionless in the map room, staring blankly down at the charts. When he did eventually look up, Raven was standing in the doorway, but the hedge knight made no comment, just spread out a roll of maps from Lord Falk and began going through the Castellan’s notations. Carick forced himself to concentrate, but his hand shook a little at one point as the dream flashed through his mind again, and he knew that Raven noticed.
Maister Gervon was in his usual place when Carick went down to the midday meal in the castle hall, and did not look like a man who suffered from nightmares. “Indigestion,” Malisande murmured. “That expression would sour any food.” The young people around her laughed, and it was clear that what Hamar had said was true: none of them liked the maister. Carick felt unreasonably cheered by this and stepped out more briskly when he returned to the inn that evening. All the same, he delayed extinguishing the candle after finally going to bed.
The dream came more swiftly this time and the apparition did not speak, just closed in on him. Pale, glowing hands reached out, murder in the burning eyes as Carick remained frozen, unable to move or speak. He smelled the foulness of the priest’s breath, rank as decaying flesh, and even in the dream he felt nausea rise, followed by a dizziness that sapped his will to resist.
The scrape of metal rasped through the mist and the apparition whipped around, peering into the brume. Carick was finally able to pull away, and when the mist cleared he found himself standing on a high place. A rampart, he thought, then realized that it was one of the castle’s inner walls, immediately above the small chapel to Serrut that stood in an enclosed garden. The mist was thick, but he could still make out a circle of hooded figures, motionless within its whiteness.
In the dream a cock crowed, fraying both the mist and surrounding darkness and pulling Carick awake. His body felt as chill and clammy as though he really had been standing on that predawn wall, and his heartbeat was a staccato tattoo. He could not deny the vividness of his dream, which had seemed real. The cock crowed again, imperative from its village dunghill, and was answered by a rival within the castle. Carick stumbled to the window, pushing back the shutters and drawing in a great draught of cool air.
A drift of mist hung over the orchard, but otherwise the world was clear and pale: the day was going to be beautiful. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, lifting them at the sound of running feet. Two dark shapes appeared in the inn gateway, and a moment later he recognized Hamar and Malisande as they pounded on the door. “Manan!” Malisande cried. “Maistress Manan, wake up!” Neither she nor Hamar appeared to have noticed Carick, gazing down at them.
“What is it?” he called softly. “What’s wrong?”
Their faces turned upward. They were both pale and Malisande’s eyes were huge as she shook her head.
“What is it?” Carick repeated, more urgently this time. He could hear someone moving in the house as Hamar answered, his voice harsh.
“They’ve just found Maister Gervon in the chapel of Serrut.” He stopped, his face twisting, and Carick’s breath caught. The blood pounded in his temples, and Malisande’s voice, speaking again, sounded thin and distant.
“Erron insists that Manan come at once.” She paused. “The maister is dead, Carick, quite dead, with a stake through his heart.”
Chapter 15
The Chapel of Serrut
Manan strode from the inn with surprising speed, despite her bulk, while Malisande clutched a bulging herb satchel and hurried to keep pace. Why the satchel, Carick wondered, if Maister Gervon is already dead? But Hamar shook his head when he said as much.
“Manan is the lay-priestess of Imuln in Normarch, and the sisterhood uses salves and linens for laying out the dead.” His eyes were still dark with whatever he had seen in the chapel. “Serrut is lord of life’s journeys, but eventually they all bring us to Imuln.”
So they do, Carick thought, and shivered. On the River, the temples taught that even Kan, the dancer in shadows, must bow to Imulun in the end—which was perhaps not surprising given that Seruth and Kan were both her sons. Light and dark, the giver of life and its taker, the healer and the slayer: the divine twins, one the mirror image of the other, forever opposite and conjoined.
Carick shivered again and thrust his arms into his jacket, glad that Hamar had waited for him. The Emerian squire seemed made for the everyday world of sunshine and fresh air, with his open expression, broad shoulders, and square, powerful hands. Yet he was still white about the mouth and the shadow in his eyes remained. Carick turned away from the kitchen door and helped himself to a generous slice of bread and cheese. “We might as well eat first,” he said “Did you see the body?”
“We all did.” Hamar followed his example, his eyes narrowed as he munched. “The squires, that is. We were getting ready for predawn training with Ser Bartrand when a maid ran screaming out of the garden.” Half reluctantly, he grinned. “You should have heard her screech! It was enough to wake the dead, let alone the entire castle.”
“Which she did, I gather,” Carick replied. “But what was she doing there?”
Hamar’s eyes rolled. “Her sweetheart is campaigning with Ser Rannart, off in the West, and she wanted to leave a wreath for his safe return. The usual kitchen maid stuff. Dawn is a good time, being sacred to both Imuln and Serrut—except the poor girl found rather more than she was expecting.”
“It was bad, I take it?” Carick began to pull on his boots.
“Very bad.” Hamar’s expression turned grim again. He was still wearing his sleeveless practice shirt, but did not seem to feel the nip in the dawn air as they started for the castle. “We all piled in, of course.” Hamar’s breath misted as he spoke. “But what we saw—well, you couldn’t blame the girl for screaming. None of us liked the man, but still . . . He didn’t even look like Maister Gervon anymore. And the stake through the heart!” The squire shook his head. “That’s folktale stuff: Oakward lore. Not what you expect when you get up in the morning.”
Carick shrugged deeper into his jacket, uncomfortably aware of the similarity between his dream and Maister Gervon’s death. I will not think of it, he told himself. Yet when he looked around at the new day, the little feathers of mist across the training field reminded him of the white fog in his nightmare. “Does one ever expect such things?” he asked, speaking more to himself than Hamar, but the squire shrugged.
“Probably not. Erron and Ser Bartrand kicked us all out as soon as they saw the body, but that won’t stop the rumors, not with half the castle in the yard by then and the kitchen girl still having hysterics. Everyone’ll be imagining demons under bed and brushpile. I’ve seen it before here, after a bad harvest or an outbreak of disease.” Hamar grimaced as they stepped into the castle’s outer yard and saw the gathered knots of castle folk, muttering amongst themselves. “See?” But he slowed rather than pushing his way through, calling out a greeting here and a light jest there, and forcing the mutterers to meet his open gaze.
Deliberately easing the tense atmosphere, Carick thought, impressed—then jumped as Raven tapped him on the shoulder.
“What’s happening?” Hamar asked.
“The Castellan wants you and the other squires back at your lessons,” Raven replied. “Setting a good example, I believe he said.” He switched his gaze to Carick. “But you’re to go to the chapel. Lord Falk wants you to map what’s in there for him.”
Carick swallowed. “I’ll need my pens. And p
aper. I won’t be long.”
Or wouldn’t have been, he realized a few minutes later, except that everyone between the courtyard and the map room wanted to ask him questions. Raher, of course, was openly envious when he learned that Carick was being allowed into the chapel itself. “How come you have all the luck?” he demanded, detaining Carick with a hand on his arm. “Maybe I should take up this scholar business as well.”
This drew a derisive shout from every squire within earshot as Carick removed the hand. “You are holding me up,” he pointed out, and the other squires fell back as well, letting him move toward the stairs. A quick glance around showed only somber faces, with Audin and the Countess Ghiselaine’s heads bent close in conversation.
Well, they are the leaders here, Carick thought—before nearly stumbling over Girvase and Alianor on the first landing. They were standing by the window, but although Alianor nodded a greeting, Carick sensed tension beneath their studied calm. Girvase moved aside, his eyes flicking to meet Carick’s—and the maister almost drew back, because it was like looking down a length of drawn blade. Yet the look was gone almost before Carick had registered it, so he returned Alianor’s nod and hurried on.
Did I imagine it? he wondered, as he snatched up his drawing tools—but had forgotten the incident by the time he returned to the garden. Raven was standing guard at the narrow gate and let him through with a look that might almost have been sympathy, which made Carick’s stomach muscles clench. And he vomited, even before he saw the body, because of the smell. Ser Bartrand, he thought miserably, seeing the knight waiting outside the chapel, would despise his weakness, but the knight only shrugged. “It’s bad, but still not the worst I’ve encountered. Wait until you come upon an entire village that’s been slaughtered by outlaws several days before.”
